It Is Perilous, At Best
by AnimaDaemon
Summary: Grimmjow makes a living on the streets of Karakura City. This is his life. His choice. He wants it this way.. doesn't he? - Eventual GrimmIchi. AU. Yaoi. Various pairings. Slight non-con. Drug use. Violence - You've been warned!
1. Chapter One

**It is perilous, at best.**

Rating; M (_Mature_)

Paring; GrimmIchi, various others.

Warnings; AU, Profanity, non-con themes, violence, drugs, scenes of a sexual nature, yaoi.

* * *

"What're you lookin' at, bitch!?"

The gruff snarl permeates the damp night. A woman, no older than twenty, gathers herself visibly before tearing away down the street; stiff and righteous.

And Grimmjow continues to sneer at her back until she's long out of sight.

No one gets to look at him that way. No one gets to pity him. He's here because he damn well fucking wants to be.

The alleyway is slick with rain and black with dirt. And it's cold. It's always, always fucking cold. That's the thing about living like this. About going it rough.

Shuffling a little to work a knot out of his back, Grimmjow grimaces at the feel of the rough wall behind him.

He thinks he must look pathetic, really. Hunched up against a wall in a tiny, grimy side street. His shoes are torn. His jeans are ripped. His hoody is nothing more than a useless rag. But this is his life. His choice. He wants it this way, doesn't he?

The way that woman had stared. The way that woman had deemed him worth her pity. It made him fucking sick. He'd made it this far, hadn't he? He'd made a living out of these city streets. He should feel proud.

Grimmjow lowers himself until he's sitting on the wet ground. The rain is a wet mist, clinging to everything it touches. The night is bleak; winter has dragged autumn away kicking and screaming, leaving dead leaves, icy wind and torrential weather.

He really needs some new clothes this year. He should consider spending the little cash he has on something other than drugs and booze.

_Thinking about drugs.._

Stuffing his hand in his jeans pocket, he pulls out a small tobacco tin. Flipping the metallic lid that conveniently has a marijuana leaf displayed on it, he picks out a half-smoked joint. Settling it between his chapped lips, he lights it with a rusty old zippo.

The first pull is heaven. The end flickers and burns with a dim glow, revealing his slit sapphire eyes and a straight nose. Exhaling slowly, he feels himself sink heavier to the street floor.

The city is noisy around him; cars are speeding up roads, people are jeering in the distance, the drainpipes are gurgling and the wind is whimpering through the trees and buildings.

It is a shithole, really. Everything is so… so grey. The buildings are grey. The roads are grey. The pavements are grey. Even the people are grey; lucid, boring and lethargic. Grey. Just so damn fucking grey.

_But it is home_. Grimmjow's home. He'd have it any day over life with his so called_ family._

His family. They'd always been monsters. Cruel and unforgiving, hollow and ruthless. He hadn't stood a fucking chance at a normal life. He'd been raised to crawl through the dirt and to deal with it. The monsters had created a monster. A family of monsters. How novel.

He has no idea what has become of them. His brother, his mother or his father. He hasn't a clue what happened after the drug bust. He doesn't even care to know where they ran to.

The police had tried to tame them. They'd tried to tame monsters. But as far as it goes, monsters can't be tamed; only destroyed.

And that is why, Grimmjow speculated, while rolling his neck to work out more knots; that is why the streets had been more forgiving. He'd fled to this place when he was barely sixteen years old. Away from his corrupt, broken family. Away from responsibility. Away from what society expected of him. He'd fled to a place of freedom.

The problem was, when there is freedom to be claimed, there are always others who want to possess and control it.

It wasn't long after Grimmjow had escaped to the streets that he met the others who prowled the city at night. They lived without moral. They stole, they raped, they murdered.

They lived without soul.

Gangs. Groups of outcasts who ruled the bowels of the city.

Freedom had become repressive, and Grimmjow had had no chance but to play along.

And now this is his life. He'd chosen it.

It is _definitely_ what he wants.

Suddenly pulled from wayward thoughts, Grimmjow picks up on the sound of the wet slap of feet on pavement. Focusing up to the end of the street, his eyes make out a dark figure. And it's gaining on him.

Self-preservation kicks in, and he subtly reaches into his hoody pouch for the stanley blade that is resting there, cold against his abdomen.

The figure is getting closer. Grimmjow stubs the joint out on the wet tarmac. He grips the blade, ready to strike if necessary…

Nnoitra Jiruga sweeps out of the shadows, as tall and intimidating as ever. He stops suddenly, his large body looming over Grimmjow's crouched form.

"Ha! Yo, Hime! Knew I'd find your sorry ass around here somewhere." A shit-eating grin is marring half of his face, and Grimmjow doesn't know whether to follow through with his initial plan of attack.

"Fuck off, Jiruga!" Grimmjow snaps furiously; he'd not expected this man. Not here, not now.

"Kitty's got _claws_! Reeeoow! What crawled up your ass and _died_?"

"You did, motherfucker, now back the fuck off!" Wrenching himself gracelessly to his feet, he turns to walk away from Nnoitra, his steps quick.

Before he can make it further, a hand snatches painfully at his shoulder. In a less than three seconds, he finds himself whirled around and slammed against the alleyway wall. The hand returns to clamp around his neck, crushing him.

"Tone it the fuck down, Jaegerjaques, before I tone it down for you!" Grimmjow can feel bile creeping up his throat; disgusting and pitiful fear possessing his body. He hates himself for it. He stares into the violet eye of the man before him. The grin hasn't left his face.

"That's better! Now. Ya know the score, Jaegerjaques. We need something done; if ya want a bed tonight and a head still attached to ya body by morning, you'll do as your told, ne?" Grimmjow can feel the fingers flexing around his throat. He nods his head in ascent, but he can't help the way his teeth curl over his lips in a toothy sneer, his canines bared.

"It's good we see eye to eye, Grimmy! So, there's this small clinic we're interested in. It's in western Karakura, Minimikawase. Called the _Kurosaki Clinic._" Nnoitra loosens his grip slightly and Grimmjow takes in a gulp of precious air. Shuffling uncomfortably he grunts in acknowledgment; the feel of those long, thin fingers still flexing around his throat keeping him reasonably compliant.

He _hates_ this. He _hates _him.

"It's full of useful shit, and boss wants it all by morning! The place fills out prescriptions, so plenty of medical-grade shit. They've also got some useful stuff like scalpels and sedatives. Boss wants it from there 'cause the place is low security and its family run. Practically hassle fuckin' free, and we're less likely to cause much police attention.. Can handle that, can't ya Hime?"

The fingers slide snakelike, from around Grimmjow's neck and down his front. The bile rises further up his throat.

Grimmjow nods again, teeth still bared in a silent growl. The grin is eating up at least three quarters of Nnoirta's face now; his fingers are idly caressing Grimmjow's clothed chest.

"Mmm, good. And when ya done, Grimmjow, how do ya like sharing _my_ bed tonight?"

"No fucking way! You said!-"

"I didn't say _anything_! I promised ya a bed. I didn't say _where_." Nnoitra is leering now, his head bending low, sickly breath heating Grimmjow's neck and ear. The shiver that follows is self-explanatory.

"Look Jiruga, I'll get your shit done. I'll have it to you by midnight. And I'll crash on your fucking couch. Isn't that fair?" His demand comes out more like a whispered plea.

_I hate this. I hate him._

Nnoitra considers him with pseudo-thoughtfulness, his ever present grin ruining the façade.

"We'll see, kittycat. Now on ya way! Don't want to be late, do we?!"

Long fingers finish their journey down Grimmjow's chest until they reach his quivering abdomen. Grimmjow can't help how his breath hitches at the slimy touch.

Then the fingers are gone, and Nnoitra is spinning onto his heel and stalking back into the shadows.

"Just grab whatever shit you can find. Anything that looks useful. I'll see ya at midnight, Jaegerjaques."

The sound of his steps fade into the blackness, and suddenly Grimmjow is alone with his mind again. He slides back down the wall and onto his haunches, his head falling back and an animalistic, angry snarl ripping from his throat.

So this is the life he's made for himself. He's at the very bottom of a criminal ring. A grunt. And he takes what he can get from it.

He never knows where his next bed will be.

But they guarantee him money, food and a place to sleep.

And it's ok. Because he wanted it this way, right?

_Fuck._

* * *

The Kurosaki place looks inviting; warm and homely. Even for a clinic.

And Grimmjow looks like some kind of creep; staring stoically into the rear window of the place in the middle of the night, standing alone.

But he supposes that's what he is. A creep. He is about to rob the place blind, after all.

And after no longer than a few minutes speculation, he decides to wing it.

He can't be _fucked_ to devise something intelligent.

_It's too late for that shit. I'm tired_.

Grimmjow grips the brick that until now, has been hanging loosely in his hand for the past half an hour.

Boy, did he get some stares on the way here.

Taking himself a few steps back over gravelly ground, he grasps the brick tighter. And after rolling his shoulders for a couple of seconds, he's ready.

The brick smashes against the window with a noise akin to an explosion. The window is completely caved in, leaving a nice, human sized hole.

_Two birds, one stone. Nice_.

And on the first attempt, too. He was getting good at this shit.

Grimmjow jogs up to the broken window and climbs up onto the sill without a moments hesitation. Kicking a few rebellious shards through the threshold, he clambers in and drops heavily onto the glass scattered floor on the other side; it crunches loudly under his feet.

Waking the residents next door couldn't bother him any less. He could deal with them.

The corridor is cast in shadow, and he makes his way down it slowly, trainers squeaking softly on the linoleum flooring.

This place is smaller inside. The light, cheery colours of the walls help him see where he's going in the semi-darkness. A door appears on his left, and he immediately detours to investigate.

He tries the handle and it swings to admit him. Even on first glance at the room, all he can see is rows and rows, shelves and shelves of small, white boxes with printed labels.

_Jackpot._

Grimmjow scrambles to grab handfuls of medication boxes at once, sweeping them off the shelves and into the black bag he'd hastily pulled out of his pocket on entry.

Once the bag is three quarters full, adrenaline is coursing through his veins and he all but sprints out of the room and down the corridor. The next door he comes across, he kicks inwards with his foot.

This room is white and sterile. He quickly approaches a low shelf on the far side of the room and spots a metal box perched in his immediate reach. He picks it up hastily and fumbles with sweaty, excited hands to get it open. The clasp on the box breaks. No matter.

Inside is a set of medical tools, glistening dully in the orangey light of the streetlamps outside.

_Score._

There are more white boxes in this room; on the shelf level with Grimmjow's eyes. He grasps one and rattles it. He hears the sloshing of liquid. He shrugs, and puts it and several others in his black bag with the metal box.

A last sweep of the room reveals a stethoscope and an open box full of gauzes and iodine. He shrugs again to himself, and puts those into the bag too.

_Time to go_.

Grimmjow can't help but think that he's been lucky tonight; He'd encountered no one. He hadn't heard any sirens. He hadn't even disturbed anyone with his forced entry.

Tonight was one of those rare, good nights.

He swings around the doorframe in a run, the squeak of his feet echoing loudly around the corridor; he just wants to be gone.

Reaching the broken window, he leans out and lowers the black bag onto the ground outside carefully.

_Better safe than sorry._

"What the FUCK are you doing?! Who are you!?"

Grimmjow's luck shatters. His throat closes and his fists tense in wild panic.

_Someone is here._

Quicker than a shot, he whips around in the direction of the sound of a vicious and absolutely _furious_ sounding voice.

A man. A young man, is standing about ten feet away from him, near the end of the corridor. His fiery eyes are like beacons in the half-light. His orange, wild hair is catching the glow of the streetlights, igniting it. His thunderous scowl is enough to kill a lesser human.

He was an impressive sight. He'd be very, very attractive, if not for the fact Grimmjow had robbed what seemed to be his clinic. He seemed a bit young to own a clinic…

"DO YOU _HEAR _ME!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" He shouts, fire and rage fuelling his shout. And now he's running towards Grimmjow.

Without time to think of anything clever, he whips out his trusty stanley blade from his pocket. The man skids to a stop barely a foot away, his chest heaving and his eyes burning.

"Come any closer and I'll gut you, fucker!" Grimmjow snaps, baring his teeth in a nasty sneer. He hasn't got time for this. It'll be midnight soon.

It's best to scare them quick.

"_Try me._" The man whispers. Grimmjow's eyes widen as the man steps right up into his personal space, right up against the knife. It's digging into the man's chest, indenting his pyjama shirt.

Grimmjow can't tear his eyes away. All he can see is fire. Fire and rage, swirling in light brown, scowling eyes. The man presses closer. And closer. A grimace flickers across the man's face.

And Grimmjow drops the knife, and then punches the deluded man straight in the jaw. For his own goddamn safety.

The man reels backwards, his feet tripping with the force of the punch, but catches himself before he hits the floor.

But it's not good enough. Grimmjow is already out of the window, has snatched his black bag up of the ground and has started to sprint as fast as he ever has away from the building.

"COME BACK AND FACE ME!" The scream pierces Grimmjow's ear drums but he doesn't stop to look back. He knows the man is after him.

Grimmjow can hear the beat of bare feet on the tarmac, gaining on him.

"YOU WON'T FUCKING GET AWAY WITH THIS! COME BACK AND FACE WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" He's still screaming, and it sounds louder, closer. But Grimmjow still doesn't dare look back to see those fiery eyes. He needs to lose this guy. And he probably knows these city streets twice as well.

_Game on._

Grimmjow decides to whip to the left, down by the side of a DVD rental store and over the high, metal fence at the back. He struggles with the climb, and instantly regrets his choice when the guy's feet falls sound like they're right behind him.

He hears vicious panting as he drops from the fence and tears down an alleyway directly to his right.

"YOU'LL REGRET THIS! YOU'LL FUCKING REGRET IT!" The screaming pierces the night again as Grimmjow dodges down another alleyway, and then another. He arrives on a stretch that he knows leads to a row of residential houses. The pounding of feet is getting fainter.

Grimmjow jumps up a high wall and drops over it gracelessly, still gripping the precious black bag in his fist. He lands in an over-grown back garden and wastes no time sprinting over clumps of grass and weeds and straight to a wooden gate that presumably leads to the front of the house.

He opens the gate as quietly as possible, grimacing at the resulting creek before sprinting down the side of the house and through an equally over-grown front garden. He ends up back onto the streets. Instinct takes him straight over the road and into another side street.

"I'LL FIND YOU. YOU WAIT. I KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. YOU'VE MADE A HUGE FUCKING MISTAKE!"

Grimmjow unconsciously flinches at the next shout. But immediately after he feels relief. The shout is a lot further away than last time. It's at least a block or two away; the guy's gone in the completely wrong direction.

But he doesn't stop sprinting. He whips down a few more back streets, determined to get further and further away from his orange-haired pursuer. His breath is tearing from his chest and sweat is beading from his temples by the time he slows down to a jog; the city has passed him by in a blur.

There's no time to stop, though. Even as his legs shake with fatigue, Grimmjow continues to jog for a familiar block of flats directly across the road from him, smack bang in the city centre.

People who are still milling around the streets after a night out stare at him. Drink clouded eyes follow him as he jogs, and people drunkenly jeer his way.

Snarling at the rather shrill voice calling after him to _'come hang out, blueberry!'_ Grimmjow practically pounces at the receiver by the large glass doors of the flat building when he reaches it.

The receiver rings for about thirty seconds, all the while Grimmjow shuffles uncomfortably, taking a look over his shoulder for any sign of orange and fiery eyes.

"What!?" Nnoitra snarls through the speaker, as unwelcoming as ever.

"It's _me_. Grimmjow! Let me in for fucks sake!"

"Ah! Sure thing, Hime!" The glass doors buzz and click simultaneously. Grimmjow wrenches the door open wide and flings himself inside. Skidding across the lobby, he reaches the stairs and takes them two at a time, the marble flooring echoing his stride.

By the time he's reached the top floor, he's soaked through with sweat. His hair is sticking to his forehead and his high cheekbones have gained themselves a rosy-tint.

He stops outside Nnoitra Jiruga's doorway. He breaths in deep breaths.

_I hate this. I hate him._

He knocks on the solid oak door that bares a shiny, silver number five.

Faster than should be plausible, Nnoitra is at the door and pulling it wide open. He's _still_ grinning.

_For the love of Kami, his face must be aching from that shit._

"Well, well, well! What've ya got for me, Grimmy? Come in, come in!" He presses flat against his front door, his arm splayed in the direction of his living room.

Grimmjow can't help the ugly sneer that changes his face as his slides past the other man; Nnoitra is deliberately getting close to him. It makes him _sick._

He makes his way over to the familiar L-shaped, white leather couch in the centre of the huge living space and dumps the bag of valuables on the end seat.

Nnoitra wanders over and hovers unnecessarily close to Grimmjow's side while reaching down to pull the screwed up plastic open. Grimmjow shivers down to his bones before shuffling away and sitting himself down on the other end of the sprawling couch.

"Hm. Ah. Huh. Yes…" Nnoitra is mumbling to himself as he ruffles sedately through the bag; picking items out, holding them to the light with an exaggerated squint and them placing them down carefully in a row on the couch, one by one.

"Well, Jaegerjaques. Pretty much out done ya self!" He turns to Grimmjow, his eyes taking on a curious, dangerous gleam. Grimmjow recoils immediately.

"Hmmm. So I think you've earned this." The lanky man stalks away from the couch and over to a rucksack that's been placed on the coffee table in front of them. He chucks it at Grimmjow, who catches it before it smacks him in the face and holds it at length, as if it might bite him.

_Wouldn't put it past him. Fucker._

"What-"

Nnoitra's eyebrows rise sceptically, and he nods his head at the bag in the blue-haired man's hands.

Heaving out a sigh, Grimmjow sits the rucksack on his lap and unzips it.

He's surprised at what he finds inside.

A set of jeans. A set of red converse trainers. A long-sleeve, grey t-shirt. A thick, warm-looking black hoody. All new. With tags.

His eyebrows have flown into his hairline as he sets these down and looks back into the bag. There's an envelope in here. Full of cash. Probably enough cash to get him by for the next couple of weeks.

And then last but not least, he pulls out a sizeable bag of weed. Definitely enough to sell off and keep some for himself.

And he gawps at Nnoitra.

And Nnoitra grins back; his eyes alight with something uncomfortable.

"What? Why?-"

"It's a personal thank you from the boss. He's noticed the work ya have done for us; I've had it all here since last time you came 'round but you've been a little shit lately, so I didn't give it to ya."

"What!? Fuck you! I needed-"

"_Watch your fucking mouth!_ I don't mind taking it back off you. The choice is yours, fucker!"

Grimmjow clamps his mouth shut against the tirade bubbling up his throat, his knuckles white as they grip the rucksack still in his lap. He nods stiffly.

Nnoitra approaches him anyway. He snatches the bag away, and Grimmjow growls in protest. But he places it by the blue-haired man's side on the couch. Surprised, Grimmjow raises his eyebrows and looks up at the lanky man.

That grin is still cracking his face in two.

His eyes are still gleaming with something unsavoury.

And Grimmjow knows what he wants.

"Ya get to sleep in my big, comfy bed tonight, Hime. For being a good little thief. _My good little thief._"

The shivers are back with a vengeance. They're ricocheting through Grimmjow's frame.

"I thought-"

"Ya thought _wrong. _Come on, Grimmy, ya know you enjoy it _just as much_ as I do." The purr carries across the room, timbered and as subtle as a punch in the face.

And then Nnoitra is hauling Grimmjow to his feet by his arm. And Grimmjow is snarling. And Nnoitra is bending, bending low so he is level with Grimmjow's face.

A hand snakes up to take the back of his head, twining in fine blue hair, gripping harshly.

And before he can so much as protest again, Nnoitra claims his mouth in a brutal smash of lips and teeth. He's nipping at Grimmjow's lips. Licking at the seams, and moaning deep in his chest.

Grimmjow gasps.

Nnoitra takes the opportunity to shove his tongue into the warm mouth before him.

He takes his time exploring Grimmjow's mouth. Dominating the kiss. And it takes every inch of Grimmjow's strength _not_ to react to the sensations of it all.

He stands, his fists clenched at his side, even as they twitch to cling on to Nnoitra's body.

It disgusts him.

_I hate this. I hate him._

Nnoitra finally breaks the savage kiss and his grin starts to stretch his lips again almost instantly after. He runs a long finger up the side of Grimmjow's face. Grimmjow's eyes close against the sensation.

It's all Nnoitra needs to know.

A hand closes on the collar of Grimmjow's hoody. He has to pick up his own feet as he's forcibly dragged in the direction of the bedroom behind Nnoitra.

He can feel his erection pressing against his thigh as he walks.

He sighs shakily and resigns himself to the night ahead.

_I hate this. I hate him._

* * *

Authors Note_ - I have ventured back into the world of BLEACH! This is my fresh start. My blank slate. My introduction back into writing. And I feel proud of what I've produced after such a big break! I wandered into Harry Potter territory for a while, and didn't come out for a year or so.. and now this fandom has caught my eye again. _

_This is going to be a GrimmIchi- Nnoi is just being a creepy motherfucker, and Grimm is just reacting naturally to it. It's a kinda lust-hate thing. It may seem slightly non-con, and I apologise if that offended anyone :( Oh, and Karakura is a city in this one, just so you know :3_

_I hope you enjoyed this, reader! I'm really into this story at the moment, because it suits my mood of late. I'm terrible at finishing stories, but I have hope yet for this one- as I said, it's my fresh start, and this time my partner is going to monitor me and make sure I finish this up! Ha! _

_But be easy on me, though, I'm rusty and this is a completely new style of writing for me. Constructive criticism is always good, people, but as long as you are tactful about it! _

_Until next time, then!_

- AnimaDaemon


	2. Chapter Two

"_Try me_." Ichigo Kurosaki whispers. He steps right up into the man's personal space, right up against the knife.

It's not that bad. He can bear it. He can feel the pin-point of the sharp blade warring with his skin, trying to breach his chest.

He steps closer. The robber's eyes widen dramatically. They widen like he gives a fuck about Ichigo.

_Let's test that theory_..

Ichigo steps up closer and closer to the piercing, stinging blade, and screws his face in an attempt to quell a cry of pain. He can feel his skin splitting.

The man's face is a picture of horror. A picture of confusion and conflict.

_He doesn't want to hurt me…_

A fist suddenly swings straight for his face, faster than he can track it.

Blinding, searing pain explodes across Ichigo's jaw and up the side of his face; tearing his theory to pieces.

And then he's falling.

He flings an arm out to catch himself on the wall, his left leg righting itself just in time, kicking back at the floor to push him into the standing position.

And the thief is gone.

With a hand cupping his throbbing jaw, Ichigo catches sight of the sorry excuse for a criminal legging it over the road.

And all Ichigo can see is red. Blinding, angry red.

_"COME BACK AND FACE ME!" _He screams, the noise bouncing around the corridor of the clinic.

He wastes no time to attend to his bleeding foot as he tramples across shards of broken glass. Wastes no time jumping through the shattered clinic window. Wastes no time sprinting with the air of a madman after the robber tearing up the street.

His feet are slapping bare against the cold street floor as he keeps his target in sight, eyes narrowed; burning and dangerous.

"YOU WON'T FUCKING GET AWAY WITH THIS! COME BACK AND FACE WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

The scream is erratic; Ichigo is hysterical with anger. He sees the man falter slightly.

And then the man rears off to the side, past the local DVD rental place. And Ichigo laughs, a strangled, panting laugh at the guy's stupidity.

He hears the thief struggling with the metal wired fence and pounds his feet into the tarmac even harder in a bid to catch the guy before he makes it over.

He turns down the side of the store to see the man three quarters of the way up.

Ichigo's breathing is harsh and ragged, but not just with exhaustion; with excitement.

_Got you._

He's already raising his right hand to grab the criminal and pull him down the fence, his feet taking him closer and closer to his target.

He meets the fence and makes a wild grab for the man's retreating foot.

And misses.

The man drops down from the top of the fence like some oversized bird; his arms out at his sides for balance on impact.

"YOU'LL REGRET THIS! YOU'LL FUCKING REGRET IT!"

The shout rips from Ichigo's throat as he takes on the fence, climbing it like a something possessed; his eyes still a blistering inferno of hate.

_How DARE he!_

The fall from the fence doesn't go to plan; in his haste, he lands awkwardly and jars his already injured, bloody foot on impact with the street floor.

He hisses, his eyes screwed shut against the ringing pain, before taking off again in the direction where he last saw the man.

He runs. And runs some more.

He can't see him anymore..

He keeps running. That man was here. Barely a minute ago. He can't be far..

The streets are silent around him.

He stops in the middle of a rundown cul-de-sac, a street lamp pooling him in orange light.

"I'LL FIND YOU. YOU WAIT. I KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. YOU'VE MADE A HUGE FUCKING MISTAKE!"

His chest is heaving. His eyes are still made of fire. His scowl is murderous.

_I've lost him_

"Fuck! _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_!"

Ichigo swears at the empty night. He aims an angry kick at an innocent rubbish bin, and it spills clanks and bounces all over the street floor, spilling rotting food and wasted containers.

An elderly woman is staring at him from a grey fronted house over the way. Her hand is curled around white blinds, pushing them away. And she doesn't even look frightened. She looks curious. Like Ichigo's life is a fucking TV-show.

Kicking a stray milk bottle out of his path, Ichigo strides away and out of the col-de-sac, away from staring eyes.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and promptly calls the emergency services.

Which is what he should've done in the first place, really.

He had always been a hot-head. Underneath the fire and compulsion lay someone calm and empathetic.

He asks for the police to be sent out and briefly describes the situation, striding back to the clinic as he does. He ends the call and picks up his pace. The streets are freezing, and his breath is puffing out in warm clouds that follow him as he walks on sore, icy-cold feet.

By the time he arrives, a blaring police cruiser is flashing blue and ripping up the road towards him.

The rest of the night is a blur. They ask him numerous questions and ask him a dozen times to recite the appearance of the criminal. They insist he tries to remember even the smallest details. All he knows is; the man had short-ish blue hair. He was wearing a grey hoody and a dark pair of jeans. His shoes had been a near-black kind of colour, probably supposed to be white at some point.

Ichigo also tells them he has blue eyes. A piercing, startling kind of blue. The officer interviewing him eyes him sceptically, his brow rising as he scrawls that last detail into his notebook.

They insist he takes a visit to A&E. He refuses, telling them he would sort it out himself. But they sit him in the police car and for all intents and purposes, drive him there against his will.

And as a miserable looking, over-worked nurse treats his foot he feels the night catch up with him.

He's tired and he misses his family. _Even_ Goat-face. The thought makes him huff angrily.

Yuzu, Karin and his father had been gone a week. It was their first family holiday together for almost six years. Isshin hadn't really had the time or money before now to shut the clinic down for three weeks, but when the opportunity arose, he'd taken it. They'd escaped to sunny Thailand, leaving Ichigo with the grey city and the cruel weather.

Of course, Ichigo had had the option to go. But he is busy with his medical degree, and Kurosaki senior had been worried about leaving the clinic unattended.

His worries hadn't been unfounded, it seemed.

So Ichigo had offered to stay behind. After many fist-fights, screaming matches and tears, the family had looked solemn as they'd climbed into a cab outside the Kurosaki household, clad in sunny colours and flowery shirts. They'd waved goodbye until the taxi rounded a corner, Yuzu's sad, teary smile the last thing Ichigo had seen before they were gone completely.

Ichigo can't help but think of them lazing around on a white-sanded beach as he shuffles out of the hospital lobby and looks to the skies; grey and brooding, holding promise of a heavy storm. The light of early morning barely pierces the veil of thick, dark cloud.

The walk home takes what feels like hours. Ichigo strides, the twang of pain in his foot causing him to limp slightly, down the main stretch in the city. Morning commuters pass by with blurred faces, too involved with their own lives to pay him even a glance.

The house is miserable without the sounds of his siblings and psychotic father filling it with colour and life. But he didn't mind. Not really. He _was_ busy. He was only a quarter ways through his first year of the four year course, and the strain left him cranky, flustered and inhospitable.

And as he slumps back on the couch in his family's living room, a pile of journals, books and assessments stare back at him from the coffee table. He levels the work with a glare, before pulling his winter coat from around him and tossing it over the pile, hiding it all from view.

It could wait.

The cops had helped him stretch a plastic canvas over the window the blue-haired criminal broken in through, and he'd taken the measure to lock every door to every room in the clinic afterwards. Which is something he should of done in the first place, come to think about it.

_Shit._

It'd never occurred to him that someone would actually come all the way over to Minimikawase from the city centre to steal from a small, family run clinic. They'd never had any problems before; sometimes his father didn't even lock the doors to the place out of forgetful complacence.

But Goat-face had never left their clinic unattended for more than a day. And he'd told Ichigo before the family had left that he had a bad feeling. That the first break they had in six years would somehow be bad luck. He'd said it while fitting himself in the mirror with a pair of wacky, luminous yellow sunglasses and a pink straw hat, completely contradicting his ominous mumblings.

Ichigo had told him to stop being so ridiculous and told him he looked like a goddamn idiot.

His thoughts wander to the blue-haired thief as he turns the TV on and flicks morosely through the channels, slumping half way down the couch and sighing hugely.

_How dare he._

How dare that man run from him and not face the consequences of his actions. If it'd been Ichigo, and he'd been caught, he would have seen it through to the end.

Ichigo understood some people were desperate. Ichigo understood some people sometimes didn't have a choice.

But stealing medical supplies from a place that worked to help others?

_Disgusting._

Ichigo understands stealing food, even money. But drugs? Addiction isn't a pretty look on anyone, and is certainly not justifiable.

Ichigo snorts in disgust at his own musings, tossing the TV remote down onto the sofa and standing. He makes his way down to the clinic.

He opens the door into the clinic and stares down the short corridor. Natural, dim grey light is filtering through the many windows lining the wall, and the black plastic covering the broken window is wavering slightly with the wind outside.

A memory flickers across his vision. In his mind's eye, it's dark and he can see a young man with soft blue hair and electrifying eyes that are so, so blue and wide with shock, staring at him.

He feels a stinging prickle in the centre of his chest and rubs the feeling away with his palm, while shaking his head to rid himself of his thoughts.

Something catches his eye as it glints from the furthest corner of the corridor, down below the broken window.

He makes his way to it and bends down, his eyebrows contracting with confusion..

It's a small switchblade. The blade is sticking half way out of it's a sliver handle, which is dull and grubby with age.

How the _hell_ they hadn't noticed it before now was completely beyond his level of reasoning.

He makes to bend down and grab the knife but stops himself as a thought strikes him.

Fishing a bundle of keys from his jean pocket, Ichigo strides over, unlocks and opens the door to the first room that had been ransacked.

He stares sorrowfully at the half empty shelves in the room, before pulling out three clear, sterile gloves from a low desk draw to his side. He slips on a pair and leaves the room, locking the door again.

The blade glints dully at him again as he approaches it. He kneels down and picks it up gingerly with gloved hands, sneering at it as if the whole mess last night was its fault. He flicks the blade into its handle with a forefinger, and opens the third glove with his other hand and drops the blade in the glove. He doesn't want to leave any unnecessary finger prints on the thing.

Ichigo dangles the glove closer to his face in its plastic confine. He squints, his light brown eyes slitting as he makes out a small, barely discernible scrawl upon the metal..

_G. Jaegerjaques._

A wild laugh finds its way to Ichigo's lips and bubbles out freely in a fit of indescribable glee.

_What an idiot!_

He now had a name to put to the face. Jaegerjaques-san was in deep shit.

He lets the last of his gleeful, slightly manic laugh slip from his chest as he ties a knot in the top of the sterile glove and pockets it for safe keeping.

He can't help but grin as he makes his way back out of the clinic.

* * *

By the time he's had a small nap, showered, dressed and is full of takeway pizza, Ichigo breaths in the cold, damp air of the streets as he steps out of his house.

He feels the weight of the switchblade in his coat pocket and another slightly crazy smile curls his lips.

It's a long walk into the city centre, and he wishes not for the first time that he had been able to afford student accommodation near the university, which is conveniently located smack-bang in the middle of the city.

The small smile slides into a familiar scowl as the miserable drizzle starts to fatten as if falls from the sky, the pregnant drops bouncing from every surface they hit.

_Fucking rain._

Ichigo picks up the pace, ignoring the persistent pain in his foot in favour of getting to the police station before it closes, and to avoid getting caught in the middle of the impending storm.

It hasn't really been a light day, but already it's close to dark as the evening creeps in.

_Everything looks so.. grey._

Ichigo can't help the thought as it skitters across his mind. The rain is now a grey steely sheet, pounding down from a grey sky, falling onto grey pavement and soaking grey buildings.

His hood is up against the deluge, but he can feel his bangs sticking to his face and his trainers are starting to make a squashing sound as he half-runs out of the Minimikawase area of the city and into the Kasazaki area; a rougher intercity neighbourhood you are best suited to stay well away from.

_Damn it!_

After ten minutes, the rain is battering Ichigo. Soaking him through. His jeans wet to the knee and his waterproof winter coat isn't fairing much better.

He breaks into a run, feet slipping slightly on slick ground.

He considers going back to the clinic, but he's already crossed right through Kasazaki now and the city centre is barely ten minutes away.

And then he sees it.

A flash of it out of the corner of his eye.

Vivid, striking blue.

Ichigo's stomach drops sickeningly in apprehension, confusion and excitement.

He brings himself to a skidding stop on the roadside; just on the boarders of the city centre and whips his head to his right so quickly his neck cracks.

There's a body slumped in an alleyway parallel to Ichigo. Blue hair is wet, dirty and flopping lifelessly atop of the prone figure's head.

And Ichigo feels sick.

He makes his way over to the form cautiously; he can feel the blade in his pocket, cold against his side as he walks. He reaches the person, and stares down at the side of an unmoving face.

_It's him._

And instead of the unbridled vindication Ichigo had expected to feel if he ever found the man again, all he feels is a crushing, sickening kind of sadness.

Ichigo had always been protective in an obsessive way, and he feels it crawl through his gut now as he spots blood mixing with rainwater on the street floor, seeping from underneath the man's head.

And he can't help himself as he nudges Jaegerjaques with his foot, in between shoulder blades.

And there's a gasp. A gargling, nasty sounding gasp that's probably full of blood.

And an eye slides halfway open, revealing a slit of blue. Electrifying blue.

And before Ichigo can persuade himself otherwise, he's kneeling on the wet floor and pressing two trembling fingers to the man's pulse point.

He can feel his teeth pulling back into a hateful sneer, even as concern lances through his chest.

Another straining gasp escapes the guy's mouth. And then a low, pained whine as he drags his head across the gritty street floor to look over his shoulder with hooded eyes.

The eyes widen dramatically. It should have been comical.

And then the man is rolling away from Ichigo with a pained shout, coming to a crouched position barely a couple of feet away. His eyes are alight with pain and shock as he snarls like a feral animal.

"You _fuck!_ You can't fucking kick a man when he's down! If you want to fight me, you'll damn well fucking leave me here now and we'll settle this shit later!" Jaergerjaques rasps and his voice splits and shakes as he says it. There's blood leaking freely from a cut on the man's head, running down his shoulder and arm. He's quivering, his arms shaking to support him. His sneer is faltering under an obvious onslaught of pain.

And Ichigo sighs.

"Calm the hell down! I don't want to fight you; you wouldn't last two seconds with the state you're in."

It comes out calmer than he expected. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"_Fuck you!_"

"Why the fuck did you steal from me, _Jaegerjaques?_" Ichigo feels the small thrill of vindication that had been missing from earlier at the shock once again changing the man's pallid, pained face.

"How the _fuck_-" But he cuts himself off. If it's even possible, his eyes widen a fraction more, and whatever colour is left in his face drains away.

"My…-"

"Your knife. Yeah." Ichigo says simply, his scowl deepening as he watches the man turn a sick-ash colour.

And the man only known to Ichigo as _G Jaegerjaques, _promptly slumps sideways onto the pavement. His blue eyes roll up into his skull. And Ichigo can't help but notice the look of misplaced vulnerability on his face before consciousness leaves him.

* * *

Ichigo doesn't think he's ever been so soaked in his entire life.

It has taken him a good hour to haul the unconscious man back across the city to the clinic in the middle of the storm, and upon entering, Ichigo shrugs the man carefully off his shoulder and onto the livingroom couch; a bundle of heavy wet clothing, bleeding skin and dirt.

He wonders for what feels is the hundredth time _why the fuck_ he has brought the criminal back to his home. But if he'd taken the guy to hospital, he would have been arrested. And Ichigo doesn't want that, at least not yet. Not until he's gotten himself an explanation out of the man.

_I'm a fool._

He can't help it; his instinct tells him not to leave injured people alone in the streets, no matter how rotten they were as a person.

_First things first.._

Ichigo kneels down by the man's side. He again checks the man's pulse and his eyebrows contract as he concentrates.

_He could possibly have a concussion. He'll need stitches if that laceration is anything to go by.._

He counts the injuries off in his head, assessing his options while monitoring the man's pulse. He starts feeling down the man's body for any other cuts or breaks, and cringes when he reaches the guy's right hand.

_Broken. Possibly requiring a splint. Dislocated wrist.. _

Ichigo sighs heavily and runs a critical eye over the whole of the man's body. There is nothing for it but to get these clothes off him and check for more injuries.

* * *

An hour later finds Ichigo shifting uncomfortably on the armchair opposite the couch, staring at the still unconscious, not-so-welcome guest spread over it.

Jaegerjaques has nothing but a pair of shorts and a big, fluffy blanket covering him. His head is lolling to the side, motionless.

Ichigo had blanched when he'd moved onto the man's jeans after assessing his chest to discover nothing but the man's bare crotch staring back at him.

Someone didn't like underwear, apparently.

He'd blushed the deepest red, furious, before running to retrieve a pair of scruffy old shorts and practically shoving the man into them before continuing his examination.

Ichigo had worked through most of the night; it could easily be nearing early morning.

He had called his Dad earlier, on the pretence of assessment questions. He'd asked him about the procedure for concussions. Isshin had immediately turned serious after his wild exclamations of love on hearing his son's tone. But he didn't question it, and advised Ichigo that he'd only know if someone has suffered a serious concussion on waking. He advised Ichigo that waking up the patient for an assessment was the first step. If the patient had memory loss, sickness, trouble hearing, walking or seeing, it was then the go ahead to send the patient to a hospital.

Ichigo had nodded, licking his dry lips before asking about the procedure for stitching wounds.

He already knew these things. But it was always better to get a professional opinion.

He'd said goodbye to his father after a talk about medical practice that lasted a good twenty minutes. His father had sounded suspicious, but he let it drop and for that Ichigo was immensely grateful.

And after a good few hours cleaning, stitching and bandaging, Ichigo tried to wake the man up.

He'd merely grunted, raspy and deep.

And it has been the same thing for the past hour now. Ichigo would try to wake him every ten minutes or so, and the man would grunt or whine at him, his eyes moving rapidly under their lids, before slipping back into silence.

Ichigo is now beginning to panic. He had last tried to rouse the man around five minutes ago, but right now he is ready to throttle him until he wakes.

His foot taps impatiently on the carpeted floor, bouncing agitatedly.

And before he can stop himself, he's rising out of the armchair once again and kneeling at the side of the couch.

"Jaegerjaques…" Ichigo murmurs at the bandaged man, prodding him solidly in the shoulder with more force than necessary.

A sniffle.

"_Jaegerjaques! Can you hear me!?" _He snipes, close to shouting right into the man's ear.

A moan, and a stiff role of shoulders.

"WAKE THE FUCK UP YOU LAZY BASTARD!"

Ichigo loses it, and isn't surprised if next door can hear him shout, let alone the man inches away from him.

"Wh-what!?" The blue-haired man exclaims, his voice gruff from disuse as his eyes pop open.

Wild blue swivels frantically around the room for a second, before finally settling on Ichigo's face.

"_FUCK!"_ And before Ichigo can get so much as a word out, the man is scrambling to get up and away from him.

"Calm the fuck down!" Ichigo makes a grab for the criminal and manages to catch him by the shoulder and haul him back onto his back. It's not hard, really, with the state of weakness the man is in.

"What the fuck! Let me go!" Jaegerjaques swings for him, before a grunt of pain stops him and he glares daggers at his offending arm that's currently swathed in bandages and a sling.

It's almost funny.

"_Calm down!_"

"LIKE FUCK!" The man is sounding slightly deranged now. He makes to get up again, but Ichigo pushes him back into the cushions roughly, and is silently pleased when he emits another shout of pain.

"Look. I'm not going to fucking hurt you, you idiot-"

"You little shit- don't flatter yourself! You're half my size-"

"I just managed to haul your stupid, unconscious ass all the way across the city! And I spent half the damn night patching you up! The least you can do is calm the fuck down!"

At this, the man falls into a strained silence, eyeing Ichigo critically, a sneer marring his otherwise handsome face.

"…..Why?" Is the simple response, although it's filled with a tense and uncertain anger.

"That's what I want to know, _Jaegerjaques._ Why did you fucking steal from me?" The response somehow takes the man by surprise, as if he hadn't been expecting it. And he's still baring his teeth in a nasty sneer.

Sighing greatly, Ichigo leans back and pulls the switch blade out of his winter coat that's resting on the floor behind him. He places the blade carefully atop of the man's chest, his eyes drilling into startled blue.

"_Why."_

Then electrifying blue eyes close, screwed shut in a grimace as a desperate sigh escapes the criminal.

And suddenly, he's spilling all as if it's the first time he's ever told anyone something honest.

"FUCK! Look kid, I'm fucking sorry. I didn't steal if for myself. I'm no fucking addict! I work for some bunch of cunts.. I get the shit they want, then I get what I need in return. I got nothing against you. I fucking hate what I do but I haven't got a choice!"

His chest is heaving and his eyes are wild and blue. He looks like he regrets his outburst; his eyes flick to the ceiling and he growls wildly at nothing in particular.

"_You've always got a choice!_ Look what you've done, you've stolen from a _medical centre!_ You stole medicine people might need, supplies _we_ might need to treat them and caused a fuck load of damage on a building that's already seen better days! How _desperate _do you need to be!?"

Ichigo can't help the anger. This man robbed him. And he has managed to inadvertently steal _more_ precious medical supplies even _after _the robbery due to his injuries. Compassion aside, Ichigo still feels a seething resentment for the man on his couch.

"FUCK YOU! You probably don't even know the _meaning_ of desperation, you little shit!"

"THEN ENLIGHTEN ME!"

"Where's your bed, huh? Upstairs? Is it warm? I bet it fucking is. Do you want to know where mine is?!"

Ichigo glares daggers at the man, giving him nothing back.

"Well, _let me enlighten you. _The floor. The local bus shelter. A park bench. A hostel. Maybe a hotel room if I'm lucky. Or maybe a nice, big bed in a penthouse flat in the centre of town if I'm looking especially pretty; if I suck it just right."

And Ichigo stares.

He stares, horror dawning on him slowly.

The man starts to grin; it's made out of pure, unbridled crazy.

"The truth is, kid, _I don't have a bed. I don't have a home. I don't have shit._ To get anything that resembles anything like a home, I'm either a thief or a whore, and it's only _ever_ for one fucking night and I'm back on my ass again."

"Why are you telling me this?" It's a whisper, but the man hears it anyway.

"Because it doesn't fucking matter anymore! I fucked up! See this thing here?!"

He grasps hold of the knife, his knuckles whitening around it.

Ichigo nods vacantly.

And then Jaegerjaques throws the switchblade across the room and it smacks loudly against the opposite wall. Ichigo doesn't even twitch, his gaze trained on blue, electrifying eyes.

"Because you have it, because I left it here, the boss is fucking _pissed_. And this was after he gave me a load of shit that would've got me by for at least a month out there. Well, he took it all back, didn't he? Had his cronies fucking chase me all the way to Kasazaki!"

"Why?" Ichigo can't help but ask. He feels lost in the story, lost in the man's vicious eyes.

"Why!? Because I'm a stupid little prick and I left my goddamn name on that blade! You know that! I put his little _organisation_ at risk!It's the only thing I've owned for longer than a few months, that stupid, useless piece of crap is the only thing I have!"

He's panting now, and its laboured and strained. He closes his blue, blue eyes against the pain and Ichigo is snapped out of his stupor.

And he sighs. A bone deep, forgiving, tired sigh.

"Can I ask you some questions?"

"Sure why the hell not. Doesn't even matter." His eyes are still closed; screwed in pain.

"Are you feeling nauseous? Dizzy? I know you can talk fine, but can you hear me? And can you see?"

Eyes open again, confusion lighting them even as lips pull over teeth in a grimace.

"What the fuck?-"

"Just answer the question, dumbass."

The glare finds his face. Eyebrows are pulling together in sharp confusion and thought.

"No I'm not. No, I'm not dizzy. Yes I can hear you. Yes I can fucking see you."

"And how many fingers am I holding up?" Ichigo holds up three fingers.

"Shit, I don't know, five?" The man stares at him as if he's gone crazy, sarcasm thickly lacing words.

"What? Are you sure?"

"Fuck, what stupid question is that!?"

"Jaegerjaques-"

"Don't call me that!"

"Answer the question! Are you _trying _to obnoxious?!"

"THREE!"

"_Thank you!"_

"What the hell-"

Ichigo can feel his left eye twitching in irritation, and he rubs at it frantically.

"I need to determine if you're concussed! Because if you are, Jaegerjaques, I need to get you to a hospital."

The man twitches as the use of the surname, and continues to glare into brown eyes.

"_Don't call me that!_ And no hospitals. I don't do hospitals. I'm fine."

"_Then what? _What should I call you?!"

The blue-haired stranger seems to consider him carefully for a moment; weighing his options.

Something akin to _fuck it_ passes over the other's face, and he turns his head completely to Ichigo.

"Grimmjow. That surname is nothing but bad luck."

And Ichigo sighs for what feels like the hundredth time that night. He's tired and he wants to hide under warm sheets until next week. But then he remembers that this man, _Grimmjow,_ doesn't have a bed. He feels something stir in his chest; and in that moment he hates the underlying wealth of compassion inside him.

"My name is Ichigo. You already know my surname, since you robbed the place named after it."

Grimmjow echoes his sigh from earlier.

"Ichigo Kurosaki." He says simply, his eyes taking on a considering gleam.

"Why did you bring me here, Ichigo? Why did you bring a dirty little thief into your house, and treat him like he mattered?"

The words come naturally to Ichigo.

"Because it's what I hope anyone would've done. I was ready to hunt you down and knock you the fuck into next week, but something about seeing you lying in your own damn blood made me think leaving you there wasn't an option. You want to be grateful I didn't turn you straight in."

Ichigo stares at the man; his features have started to pale.

"And are you turning me in?" He murmurs, a faint growl curling the words, his eyes turning steely with anger.

"I should."

Grimmjow starts to rise from the couch, a snarl changing his lips. Ichigo places a hand on his shoulder for the third time that night.

"But I'm not going to."

And the man called Grimmjow Jaegerjaques stares, shock rewriting his features. He allows himself to be pushed back into the couch cushions and continues his baffled, suspicious stare.

"Can I trust you?" Ichigo questions, his had sliding from Grimmjow's shoulder.

"What-"

"Can I fucking trust you? How do I know what you've told me tonight isn't a heap of bullshit? How do I know I'm making the right decision?" Ichigo snaps, his patience wearing thin, his limbs aching with fatigue.

"You can't, and you fucking don't! How am I supposed to persuade you to trust me?! Look kid, if I could give you your shit back, I would. But I can't go down again. I can't. That shit drives me insane. I can't do it. I'm sorry _Ichigo_, I'm fucking sorry things had to go the way they did."

Ichigo digs his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them frantically.

"And that's the best I'm going to get, isn't it?"

Grimmjow continues staring at his face, features still laced with confusion and suspicion.

"What do you want from me?"

The question startles Ichigo. He looks back at the man, and raises his eyebrows at the growing look of suspicion taking over the scowling face.

"You want me to turn you a favour? Is that it, kid?"

"_What?!_" Ichigo can't believe his ears. He feels his jaw drop.

"You want to fuck me, as payment for your shit."

"What the fuck!? Who the hell said that!?"

"But that's what you want, isn't it?!"

"_No!"_

"Well what the fuck _do you_ want from me!?"

"_I don't want anything from you! _Not like _that_, anyway! All I want from _you _is the goddamn truth! I want to know I'm doing the right thing here!_" _

Pale, morning light is starting to filter through the windows of the living room. Ichigo stares at the injured man lying on his couch, the light from the window illuminating the bruised, handome face, and is baffled by the direction the conversation has taken.

The fight seems to die in Grimmjow's eyes all at once.

"I am telling you the truth. I mean, _fuck_. No one has ever patched me up. No one has ever let me in their house without having something from me in return. This shit is new to me!"

And Ichigo resigns himself to his decision. His head is pounding with a relentless headache.

"I'm done here. I'm tired. And I hope it doesn't offend you that I still don't trust you, not completely. Not after everything. But you're not going anywhere like you are."

"What-"

"Get some rest, Grimmjow. You managed to get yourself two broken fingers, a dislocated wrist, twenty three stitches, three broken ribs, a sprained ankle and possibly a fractured eye socket. And you're mildly concussed. I'll be locking you in the living room."

Ichigo rises to his feet, his bones cracking with the movement. He looks down on confused, sharp blue eyes.

A scowl still marring his brow. Ichigo mirrors the scowl, the feeling familiar on his face.

"You're keeping me here?!"

"I wouldn't be any kind of medical student if I didn't."

The man has no response for that. The scowl deepens.

And Ichigo continues mirroring it.

He reaches behind himself to the coffee table and grabs a glass of water and a small, snowy-white pill and places them on the floor next to the couch.

"Take that. It'll help you sleep."

"You expect me to take some fucking random pill?!"

"I think we've established that _I don't_ want to hurt you by now."

And they're both still locked in a stare.

Scowls continuously mirroring the other, the tension in the room simmering.

And then Ichigo is turning away from the man. Not caring if he takes the pill at all.

_Fuck this._

"I'll be up in a few hours. If you so much as _touch_ anything in this house, _I won't hold back_. And this time, I'll catch you."

But Grimmjow doesn't respond. Ichigo can feel his sharp, electrifying blue gaze burning into his back as he leaves.

The last thing he hears as he turns the lock on the livingroom door is the man swearing lowly to himself; a rapid mantra of expletives.

And Ichigo allows himself a small, sad smile at the madness of it all.

He has a man who stole from him bed bound in his living room. And in just over a day after the whole thing happened in the first place.

It's fucking insanity, and it could only ever happen to him.

* * *

Authors Note – _My stanley blade has magically turned into a switchblade! I got the two types confused in my first chapter, and I'll be heading back to amend that soon!_

_SO. Whadya think, readers?! _

_It's a little erratic in parts, I think, because I've mostly been writing it at night. The story is creating itself at my fingertips, I have no control! I have no idea what this is going to turn into. We'll all have to see o.o_

_I have need for a beta, also! If anyone is willing, I'd be ecstatic!_

_Thanks for the read, whoever you may be! A review would be lovely, but not necessary :)_

_Constructive critique is also encouraged, but do play nice!_

_See ya'll in the next chappy!_

-Anima Daemon


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